


Sticky Wicket

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Wisdom Teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29582796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The aftermath of Peter getting his wisdom teeth removed.Which is to say: Peter is super duper high.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 159
Collections: is this thing (an)on?





	Sticky Wicket

* * *

Peter’s hands are sticky. He taps his fingers together, blinking down at them. Stick, stick, stick. Kinda like velcro, but not scratchy? It’s not sticky the way a substance is sticky, like gum - more like sticky the way a suction cup can be sticky if it wants to. The blanket feels sticky too, and then it doesn’t. 

He presses a hand to his face. That feels sticky too, and then not.

Or, okay. Maybe not sticky, exactly? Like little gecko hands. Wait... _what?_

“Doing alright there, kid?”

“Like a gecko,” Peter tries to explain. He swivels his head to see if he’s made himself understood and - _woah_. “You’re Mr. Iron Man.”

The man looks pretty pleased about that. 

“Yep, got it in one, Pete. Mister Iron Man. Good job. How’s your mouth feeling? Still numb, or getting sore?”

“My mouth?”

“You were touching your face.”

Peter pokes at his lips. 

“I can’t feel them,” he says, the words a little garbled by his fingers. “Hey! I cand feel my thongue eidder,” he adds, as a further data point.

“Okay, that’s - okay,” Mr. Iron Man says. Peter feels a hand wrap around his wrist, tugging his hand away from his mouth. “You don’t need to be feeling your tongue right now.”

“I’m sticky,” Peter admits, because he feels like he should tell him that, especially now that he’s touching his wrist. Peter isn’t sure if his wrist is sticky too, but Iron Man hasn’t let go of his arm.

“You sure are.”

Peter frowns. He’s not sure what kind of response he was expecting to the news, but not that. 

“Am I supposed to be sticky?” Peter asks, suddenly afraid that it means something is wrong with him.

“Absolutely.”

“Oh. Okay.”

*

Peter drifts for a while. His face feels funny, and his head too. He blinks at the white walls. 

“Hey, where are we?” he asks.

“Disneyland.”

Peter frowns. “Really?”

“Yep. Right at the top of the castle.”

“Woah.”

That’s pretty cool. It seems a little weird, but that was kind of the whole thing with Disneyland, wasn’t it? They pumped smells into the streets, and have like, secret underground tunnels so the actors could pop up wherever they needed to be. Anything was possible - and doubly so since Mr. Stark was here. 

If anyone knew about a secret room at the top of the castle at Disneyland, it’d be Mr. Stark.

Peter lets his eyes wander around the room, searching for hidden Mickey faces.

“What’re you looking for, kid? You need something?”

“Mickey.”

Something complicated happens with Mr. Stark’s expression, and Peter is too sleepy to figure out what it might mean. 

“Think he’s busy signing autographs. Maybe later.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Not _Mickey_ Mickey, I meant his face.”

“You think he’s out there signing autographs without his face? I’m pretty sure Disney doesn’t allow stuff like that.”

Peter takes a brief moment to consider the prospect of Mickey running around the park with no head, leaving a trail of crying children in his wake. He blinks away the mental image. The room is really white. White walls, white sheets, white door. He frowns.

“Hey, where are we?”

“Timbuktu.”

“Woah, _really?”_

*

“How about you try going back to sleep for a little bit?” Mr. Stark says, a little while later.

Going back to sleep may sound like a great idea to Peter, but his body doesn’t seem to feel the same way about it. Peter closes his eyes, and opens them again. He’s sleepy, but he isn’t _tired_ , if that makes any sense.

“Hey, why can’t I feel my tongue though?” he asks, suddenly remembering.

“Because we drugged you up with the good stuff.”

“The good stuff?”

“The best stuff. Trust me.”

Something occurs to Peter that probably should have occurred to him earlier. Something pretty important - 

“Am I high?”

“As a kite,” Mr. Stark says, grinning. “Higher, actually. A kite is Ben-Franklin-tech levels of high, we’ve got you flying about three centuries of medical science or so beyond that.”

“That’s... pretty high.”

“It sure is. How do you feel?”

“Good. Weird. Did I tell you I was sticky?”

“Several times now.”

“Oh.”

Mr. Stark looks at him for moment, then grabs a pen off of the bedside table.

“Here. Show me how sticky you are.”

“Watch this.” Peter grabs the pen and holds it out, opening his hand. The pen falls to his lap. “Okay, okay. Wait. Hold on. I got this.”

Peter tries again. The pen falls again. Peter looks at his hand. He looks at the pen. He tries with his other hand, and this time the pen bounces off his thigh and clatters to the floor.

“It’s not working,” Peter says.

“It’s okay. Happens to a lot of guys. Or so I’ve heard.”

Even before Peter opens his mouth, he knows he shouldn’t say the thing. His brain may be a little muzzy right now, but that’s not enough to completely overshadow the sheer number of hours Peter has spent _not_ making dirty jokes because he’s a little bit terrified Mr. Stark will look at him like he’s just some dumb horny kid.

He does it anyway though, because it is sort of just… right there. Plus, you know. Drugs.

“A lot of guys can’t get their pens to stay up?” Peter asks.

Mr. Stark looks like he’s in physical pain. He should really try some of the best drugs that Peter is on. Peter has four gaping holes in his jaw and might have just made a really dumb dick joke in front of his mentor and not-infrequent star of his jerkoff fantasies and he feels _awesome_. 

But instead of answering (which, fair) Mr. Stark says, “Hey, you hungry? We’ve got jello, pudding, apple sauce, the works.”

Those all sound okay, but something in his head trips a sense-memory from years and years ago, and Peter finds himself overwhelmed with a very specific kind of craving. Something tarte and sweet, something that tastes like summer vacation - if summer vacation were a thing you could actually taste.

“Citrus swirl?” he asks, hopeful.

Mr. Stark gives him an odd look, shifting on his feet. 

“Done.”

*

“Technically speaking, I don’t think I’m supposed to be giving you frozen stuff to eat just yet,” Mr. Stark says. “So don’t tell anybody.”

Peter nods, not really paying attention. This is the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

“This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he tells Mr. Stark.

“Glad to hear it.”

Mr. Stark sounds like he doesn’t believe Peter. Which is - honestly, it’s kind of insulting. 

“Have you ever tried it?”

“Frozen orange juice and vanilla soft-serve swirled together? Can’t say I have.”

“Try it.” Peter shoves the plastic cup towards Mr. Stark’s face. Mr. Stark makes a face, like he’s trying not to smile, and gently pushes Peter’s hand back towards himself. 

“That’s all yours, kid.”

“Your loss,” Peter mumbles, tucking back in. “Hey wait - are you really just like, sitting here watching me eat ice cream? Don’t you have important Avengers stuff or company stuff you have to do?”

“Yeah, actually. The important Avengers stuff I need to be doing right now is making sure the super strong experimental anesthetics we just tested so that you could get your wisdom teeth out haven’t irreparably scrambled your brain.”

“Oh.”

“Preliminary results not super reassuring on that front so far,” Mr. Stark says, one eyebrow cocked. 

“My brain’s not scrambled,” Peter objects. He may or may not be pouting - if he is, it’s genuinely not his fault. His mouth is still kind of numb. He can’t be held responsible for what it does. “I just feel a little… fuzzy. How long until this stuff wears off?”

Mr. Stark looks down at his watch. “Well, definitely more than three hours.”

“How long’s it been so far?”

“About two hours and fifty-six minutes. I wasn’t kidding about the experimental thing, we doped you up with enough pharmaceuticals to take down a sub-Saharan hippo or three.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of drugs.”

“Yeah, bad news kid - if you were looking forward to the much exalted college experience of getting high listening to Led Zeppelin, you’re probably gonna need to hotbox an entire dispensary to get there.”

“That’s not actually news to me.”

Mr. Stark has that looks he gets sometimes (rarely) when he really wants to say something, but is trying really hard not to. Instead, he grabs the pen off the bedside table and holds it out towards Peter.

“Here. Try being sticky again.”

Finally a minor success - Peter’s hand sticks to the pen. And also Mr. Stark’s hand. Mr. Stark lifts his hand (and the pen, and Peter’s hand) up, turning it one way and another as if he can actually see intermolecular bonds.

“Always an overachiever,” he comments.

“Uh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Peter tries to pull his hand away. Mr. Stark’s hand comes with it. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to imagine himself climbing up a wall - one hand sticking, and then releasing, then the other, back and forth, back and forth. When he opens his eyes his hand is unstuck and the pen is laying on the bed.

“I’d count that as significant progress,” Mr. Stark says.

Peter pats at the sheets, trying to re-stick on purpose this time, but no joy. “I still can’t make it happen on purpose though.”

“Yeah, well, an hour ago you were calling me Mr. Iron Man and kept talking about geckos, so we’ve actually come pretty far, considering.”

“Oh my god.” Peter buries his face in his hands, and does not care even a little bit if they get stuck like that forever. “Did I say anything else that was weird?”

Mr. Stark doesn’t answer, but when Peter peeks out from behind his fingers he sees Mr. Stark grinning pretty wide.

He’ll take that as a ‘yes.’  
  


* * *


End file.
